


Cracked Actor

by Chromat1cs



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Canon Compliant, Dirty Dancing, Drunken Flirting, Established Relationship, Exams, HEAVY DAVID BOWIE, Hogwarts Era, Hogwarts Seventh Year, House Party, M/M, MWPP, Marauders' Era, Underage Drinking, honestly they could throw parties ALL THE TIME., implied Wolfstarbucks, ish? I guess? It's in the common room. Sort of a house., judicious use of silencing charms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 06:06:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17074817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chromat1cs/pseuds/Chromat1cs
Summary: The time between the last exam and the posted NEWTs results is the perfect time to throw caution, bodily and with exuberance, to the springtime wind. The Gryffindors have a party to slough off the tension and there’s one of them in particular who knows some of his favorite lyrics just a bit too well for his own good.





	Cracked Actor

**** Passing through the portrait hole and beyond the precisely-placed silencing charm is like surfacing from deep water—up into a comfortable grotto crammed with a new year’s eve celebration thrown by hyenas. 

Sirius holds up the four firewhiskey bottles he’s swiped, under the safety of James’ cloak from the back reaches of the faculty lounge, high above his head to keep them from being jostled too badly as he sidles through the press of other seventh years. A couple sixth years are along too either as hangers-on or invited dates, unavoidable really since they’ve taken over more than half of the common room that’s still  _ common _ space, no matter how clear it is to the entire house that the seventh years deserve it all to themselves for conquering exams for the last time. 

_ The last bloody time.  _ Sirius can’t help the giddy grin that takes over his face to nothing in particular besides the knowledge he’ll never have to sit in one of these prison cells disguised as a vaulted classroom ever again. 

“Aye, Black!”

Sirius looks to the left and avoids McKinnon’s flying elbow as she gestures widely in the middle of a story, and he finds Sturgis Podmore pointing at him from several lengths away with a flask in hand. “You sharing? I need a refill!”

Shoving the clinkering bottles under one arm, Sirius squeezes over to Sturgis and shakes the bottle he’d opened for himself on the way through the halls with a conspiratorial twitch if his eyebrows. “How much are you willing to pay up?” He has to raise his voice over the music someone has playing through an amplification ward set far too close to the record player, but he doesn’t dislike the vibe it lends the party overall. “This nectar was fetched under heavy duress and the threat of expulsion, I’ll have you know.”

Sturgis cracks a laugh and only holds his flask out to Sirius. “Expulsion my left bollock, just pour her in then.”

Sirius shares in the humor as he uncorks the bottle with his teeth and spits the stopper to the floor, not caring where it rolls because he knows Lily will undoubtedly be the one to spell the mess away in the morning anyways—and it isn’t like he’s going to shut the bottle again before it’s gone. “To your left bollock,” Sirius announces with a flourish as he draws his wand and charms the liquor into Sturgis’ flask. Sturgis laughs again, that rocky laugh Sirius enjoys if only for its strange uniqueness, and takes a pulling sip from the bottle as Sturgis follows suit with his renewed measure. 

“Oh, fuck the butterbeer, give it here!” 

Sirius turns in the middle of wiping his mouth on his sleeve when somebody tugs at one of his bottles. He comes face-to-face with James himself, one arm around a very uncomfortable-looking Peter while the other succeeds in pulling the second bottle free of Sirius’ hold to make Sirius scramble to keep the firewhiskey from hitting the floor.

“Is that why you needed my cloak?” James says on a laugh, unstopping the bottle in almost an exact mirror of Sirius’ technique save for the fact that he spits the cork away to the far corner of the room in as far an arc as he can manage. “I thought you were just going to use it to blow Moony in some uncharted part of the castle.”

“Wouldn’t need the cloak if it were uncharted,” Sirius insists as he re-stacks the remaining two full bottles in the crook of his arm like a pair of infants and clinks his own open one with James’. Sirius takes another long swig and sweeps a look across the common room. “Speaking of, where’s he got to?”

“Why, do you actually need to blow him?”

_ “Please _ stop talking about blow jobs,” Peter speaks up, wincing when both James and Sirius laugh. 

“Aw,” James croons as he ruffles Peter’s flaxy hair with his free hand, “been a little while since you last saw Emmy, hasn’t it?”

Peter glares at James and snatches the bottle from him. “I’m seeing  _ Mary _ now, you twat.” He shuts his eyes and downs a punishing sip as James makes an intrigued sound. 

“My, my, Wormy, you’re making quite long strides with the ladies,” he says with exaggerated sageliness. 

“D’you need any tips?” Sirius joins in, shoving at Peter’s shoulders with one of his own. “We’re both qualified, go on, ask away!”

The jape of James giving good head misses Peter’s comprehension entirely as he simply scowls and shoves the bottle back at James. “No. Thank you.”

“You alright then?” James asks him carefully, flicking a look at Sirius as the music skips into the hiss of blank vinyl and a din goes up to  _ Change it over, Fenwick! _

“Yeah,” Pete says shortly. His fists clench and unclench just a bit, a nervous tic, and the faint shred of sympathy Sirius keep reserved for Peter twitches slightly between his ribs. “I just—didn’t do very well in my Herbology exam. I think I really cocked it up.”

“Ah, sorry for that.” Sirius pats him solidly on the cheek and offers his bottle even though Peter is still holding the one James had grabbed. “Now that we’re all nearly wizards of greater society, what better time is there to start drinking our problems away like our forefathers?”

Somebody at the record player drops the needle on  _ Aladdin Sane _ and the record starts smack in the middle of “Drive-In Saturday” as Peter manages a pale half-smile at Sirius. “Suppose I can just take over my mum’s shop if all my grades go tits-up,” he says glumly as the dull roar of the party without music rises back up to animated vibrance. James slaps Peter on the back and takes his bottle back to clink it with Sirius’ lender. 

“That’s the spirit! Cheers, to going tits-up!”

Peter takes another draught with him and Sirius snatches the whiskey back with a good-natured “Well  _ done,” _ when Peter draws his lips back over his teeth and sticks his tongue out for the drink’s sharpness.

“I’m for more butterbeer, you two have awful taste,” he coughs. James only laughs as he lets Peter wend back off into the crowd of students toward the table charmed thick with drink, and he thumps Sirius once on the shoulder.

“And I’m for Lily, you all set then?”

“Yeah. Really though, have you seen Moony?” Sirius musses the back of James’ hair without being noticed and grins to himself for the minor and unnoticed win as James shrugs.

“He came in late from the Astronomy exam with the others who tested for it and grabbed a bottle of cranberry wine for himself, haven’t seen him since. I always just assume you know where he is.”

“You’re usually right. Fuck Astronomy.” Sirius swallows another burning mouthful of firewhiskey and finally starts to feel its glowing warmth before he makes a vague shooing motion at the greater throng of the party. “Go find your doe, you ponce; happy end of year, yeah?”

James beams at Sirius with that wild Potter abandon and sinks back into the fold as the record player spins on into “Panic in Detroit.” Left to his own devices to search for the only person beside whom Sirius has ever truly enjoying celebrating post-exams, he nods his head absently to the bright andante of the music and begins making his searching rounds.

__ He looked a lot like Che Guevara, drove a diesel van;  
__ Kept his gun in quiet seclusion, such a humble man;  
__ The only survivor of the National People's Gang.  
_ Panic in Detroit, I asked for an autograph,  
_ __ He wanted to stay home, I wish someone would phone…

Sirius’ keeper instinct kicks in with a rush when he dodges the sudden, snapping whiz of somebody’s snitch darting through the crowd and bumps heartily into Dorcas. She’s had the forethought to charm her glass of some dark liquor to float in the air beside her so nothing ends up spilled down her or Sirius’ fronts, and she only laughs and catches one of the firewhiskey bottles still cradled in his arms when Sirius steadies his stumble on her shoulder. “Alright there?”

“Yeah, sorry.” He whips his head around briefly to find the little golden bastard again, but it’s gone as soon as it passed. “Was that Potter’s?”

Dorcas helps Sirius right himself and hands the bottle back. “I think it was Prewett’s.”

“Fabian or Gid? Who the hell gave them a snitch?”

“No, Molly. Arthur bought her one last weekend because she saw it the sport shop and thought it was cute.”

Sirius snorts and takes another slug of whiskey. He offers it to Dorcas before she refuses with a silent hand, but she clinks her own glass against the lip of his bottle and quaffs a drink. “Has he thought to buy her a fucking  _ ring _ yet?”

“You’re telling me,” Dorcas says, widening her eyes slightly with commiseration as she drops her voice down below the music and leans close. “Marlene has three sickles on an over-under that they get engaged before graduating.”

“Oo, when? Can I join?” Had Sirius the ears to perk up presently they would, and Dorcas awards him a laugh for the silly burst of interest. The whiskey is knit into him by now with a sweet tinge, making him warm and happy and willing to play along with the girlishness inherent in his default showmanship that makes him wholly at home at parties.

“Nice try, but no lads allowed.” Dorcas smirks with self-righteousness as Sirius barks a laugh, bright with drink and freedom.

“That’s your dream then, isn’t it?” He forks his index and middle finger and sticks his tongue out between them, and Dorcas is quick to roll her eyes and poke at the tip of it with an indignant fick. Sirius recoils with a disgusted sound and makes an exaggerated show of pain as he cleanses his tongue with more whiskey.

“Enough about me and my habits,” Dorcas says arily over the music _ — _ _ I screamed and ran to smash my favorite slot machine/And jumped the silent cars that slept at traffic lights _ _ — _ “Don’t you have your own chappie to wag your tongue at instead?”

“Can’t find him, apparently Astronomy kept the class late. Seen him anywhere?”

“You idiot, the Astronomy exam  _ started _ late. Can’t study the stars unless it’s dark.” Dorcas hefts another laugh as realization dawns over Sirius’ face, furrowing his brow and slacking his jaw without meaning to. “You’re sweet when you aren’t thinking. You should try it more often.”

Sirius pulls a face when Marlene pats his cheek. “Har-har, Meadowes. You’re a genius. Have fun, yeah?”

Dorcas leaves him with a grin and Sirius dives back into his search, feeling at every turn as though he’s just missing Remus in the crowd. Inebriation makes the colors pull together at the edge of his vision like a layer of warm quilting, and it’s altogether comfortable and enjoyable but would be  _ so much more _ of both if Sirius could only find Moony in the fray of gold-and-crimson joy.

The record track switches again into the distorted wail of “Cracked Actor” and a murmur of approval chains through the students as a few begin to sway with the back-beat groove of the song. Sirius weaves around the handfuls of them, often passing the same people in more than one round, becoming insistent and feeling very much like Padfoot pacing in the Shack when he passes James and Lily necking in the middle of everyone not twice but  _ three _ bloody times. The vindictive side of him hopes that their Head Girl and Boy pins get stuck together, and he would do it himself save for being so far from sobriety that he might hex James’ eyes out by accident.

_ I've come on a few years from my Hollywood Highs; _ __   
_ The best of the last, the cleanest star they ever had. _ __   
_ I'm stiff on my legend,  _ __   
_ The films that I made; _ __   
_ Forget that I'm fifty  _ _   
_ __ 'Cause you just got paid!

_ Crack, baby, crack,  _ __   
_ Show me you're real; _ __   
_ Smack, baby, smack, is that all that you feel; _ __   
_ Suck, baby, suck, _ __   
_ Give me your head _ __   
_ Before you start professing  _ _   
_ __ That you're knocking me dead…

Sirius is singing along at the back of his thoughts but he’s also starting to get restless. He’s about to turn back to the drink table and just hover until Remus inevitably needs to top himself off, when somebody’s voice laughs out  _ “Oi, Lupin knows all the words!” _

And Sirius is on that like a fucking scent.

He slides through the crowd, two bottles still in his arms and one in hand, toward the direction of that shout, was it Dearborn? Fletcher? Someone, doesn’t matter, but they’re near Remus and Remus is allegedly singing along to a filthy song and Sirius would rather throw himself from the observatory than miss another second of it.

After what feels like too long gently shouldering and working his way through his classmates, Sirius finally arrives at a break in the bodies to catch a glimpse of Remus’ sun-bright grin. It punches directly through his heart in the best way. Sirius shuffles nearer in a small arc of students crowded to watch, apparently, and he can’t help but smile to see the uninhibited portrait. Remus has his tie loosened, a half-emptied wine bottle in one hand, and a stance like Bowie himself —legs stood wide, hips jutted to the side, ecstatic at nothing but his own existence. It’s maddeningly lovely, and Sirius hardly thinks the sight can get better. Then Remus begins the second verse.

_ “You caught yourself a trick down/On Sunset and Vine,/But since he pinned you baby/You're a porcupine;/You sold me illusions for a sack full of checks,/You've made a bad connection 'cause I just want your sex!” _

Sirius is rapt. Remus improvises choreography to go with his exaggerated singalong, his thumb over the top of his wine bottle to keep it from sloshing as he gets his whole body into the flow. He’s riveting like this, wit flaring out to the ends of his fingertips like an aura, making their friends laugh along and cheer when he cocks a hip and limps one wrist with the last line before diving into the chorus;

_ “Crack, baby, crack,/Show me you're real;/Smack, baby, smack, is that all that you feel;/Suck, baby, suck,/Give me your head/Before you start professing/That you're knocking me dead!/Oh, yeah!” _

Remus mimes every movement of the euphemisms catapulting up out of the amplification ward, and it’s fucking  _ perfect _ . Sirius barely keeps from melting when Remus mimes the shapely curve of an arse bent down in front of him; the sharp and in-tempo strokes of three smacks across the invisible cheeks followed by the movement Sirius knows all too well and with a surge in his pulse as the preparatory press of Remus’ thumb between them; the absolutely sinful pumping of his hips as though burying himself in there — _ Fuck, _ Sirius is too drunk for this. He’s getting hard in a room full of people, and not that it’s the first time, but Remus is so... _ free  _ right now, and it’s so blatantly sexy to see him like this that all Sirius can do is watch hungrily and commit the sight to the most secure reaches of his memory.

The chorus dives into several interjections that Remus nails perfectly before the guitar begins to whine at the forefront of the track and, to the hoots and cheers of the onlookers who have chipped in to sing along with him, Remus lays into an air guitar solo so spot-on that Sirius can’t help but laugh. Sirius is suffuse with pride, a strange thing to feel when the majority of his body is suddenly telling him to drag the flailing boy into the back corner of the common room and suck him off— _ Suck, baby, suck _ —oh, thank all things holy for David fucking Bowie.

As the song begins its fadeout, Remus dissolves into laughter and several students join him and applaud, a smattering sound that smoothly traces the records path to the calmer track that follows. He tosses out a cobbled little bow for the clapping and the odd whistle with a stumble that pulls at Sirius’ heart, and he’s still smiling when he absently unstoppers his thumb from his wine bottle and sucks it into his mouth as he finally, fucking  _ finally, _ makes eye contact with Sirius.

_ You, me, now. _

...is what Sirius is hoping his gaze communicates. But judging by the way Remus breaks into another glittering smile instead of flushing his usual twelve shades of pink, it more accurately just says  _ Guh. _

“I’ve been looking for you!” Remus’ voice is slightly sheared already from speaking overtop of the noise, and Sirius quitely adores the way it rasps as Remus sidles over to him. He sees the firewhiskey bottles and laughs with abandon. “Are those all yours?”

“They’re from Minnie.” Sirius steals the opportunity to dip a bit closer to Remus, just because, and smiles a more secretive little grin at him once there’s only a hand’s width between them. “The gift she doesn’t know she’s given us.”

“Oh, those are best kind,” Remus assents. Sirius’ mind is still reeling and he watches selfishly as Remus tips his head back to down a deep swallow of wine. “You arrived just in time to see me making a complete git of myself,” Remus continues with another smile.

“You call it git, I’ll call it feast, we’ll both call it even,” Sirius says with a shrug, taking his own time to take another drink of firewhiskey and watch Remus with a bright, dancing gaze— _ There’s the flush. _ He lowers the bottle and uses the excuse of Frank shuffling by shouting  _ “Alice, you made it!” _ to get even closer to Remus. He knows they could out and attach themselves to one another in broad view without anyone giving a shit, but it’s so much more fun to Sirius for them to dance around it sometimes. “How was Astronomy?”

Remus rolls his eyes in that sleepy way he always tends to, its accenting drollness amplified by the drink in his system. “One of our tasks was to chart the moon phases for the next six months using nothing but a sextant. It was all fucking gravy from there.”

Sirius snickers at the word  _ sextant, _ and he bunts Remus’ shoulder with an elbow. “At least you know you passed  _ one _ exam then.”

“Right? It feels nice.” Remus smiles at him again but this time it’s a mild smile writ through with all sorts of little complexities that Sirius is far too far gone to parse out beyond  _ I adore you. _

“You feel nice,” Sirius finds himself murmuring then, pressing himself even nearer to Remus with a bit of a tilt to his hips and  _ Yes indeed, _ Remus shudders that sweet and promising shudder that means he’s felt the shape of Sirius’ hardness there against his thigh.

“And who might be responsible for that?” Remus breathes, just barely audible over the anthemic ballad washing over the party to infuse everyone with just enough of a sense of victory to keep them ignorant to the white heat building between the two boys at the center of the party. Sirius smirks.

“Some lovely swot who decided he suddenly knew all the words to one of the dirtiest Bowie songs.”

“‘Sudden’ my fucking foot, I’ve been listening to him longer than you have!” Remus cries in mock offense. His attempt at feigned anger stutters and dies on his face when he can’t keep his smile away, and Sirius joins him with hopeless mirth.  _ You’re amazing, you’re a gift, you’re everything. _

“Tom-ay-to, tom-ah-to,” Sirius croons.

“That isn’t the right use for that saying,” Remus says through a huff of a chuckle and brings his wine back to his lips. Sirius leans in, right at his jaw then, and takes a moment before he speaks to inhale lightly and absorb the sweet-earth smell of Remus from so near in such a public space.

“Parties are silly,” he whispers with a slight slur as one of Remus’ curls tickles his nose madly.

“Agreed.” Remus’ response is very thin and almost inaudible when someone’s laugh bursts up from across the room, but Sirius quietly thrills in the feeling of the other boy’s free hand resting auspiciously on his hip. “Any solutions?”

Sirius reaches down with the hand holding his own bottle links one finger briefly with Remus’ where they press against his body. “I know of a nook behind a chair very far away from the drink table, and so it should remain undisturbed.”

Remus draws back with a wide smile bordered ever so slightly by predatory intent and nods, and Sirius bites at his bottom lip to stay the triumphant yell he wants to shout to life in the middle of all this heady happiness. Nothing could be better than this, nothing in the entire bloody world.

He needs a place to put down the fucking firewhiskey.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay I PROMISE, thus ends this latest bolt of not-my-WIPs-but-they-want-to-be-born oneshots!! I have a lot I want to work on, but obviously I've been on a Bowie kick and I couldn't get this one out of my head :> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
